


In The Middle

by strikerflynnmr



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heaven, Heaven & Hell, Idiots in Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Picnics, Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Sad Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-06-03 17:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19468381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikerflynnmr/pseuds/strikerflynnmr
Summary: Four or five moments of truth are all it really takes to know that you love someone. For Crowley, that includes even the time before Eden.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work started as a four part series on tumblr, the first post of which can be found here: https://glowstickhaloboy.tumblr.com/post/185989538550/in-the-middle
> 
> I am the original author, so don't fret over credit being stolen if you recognized it. I'm also not changing anything from the original except for grammar and punctuation. I'd like to thank that audience again for supporting me so warmly while I wrote this!!

Crowley and Aziraphale get drunk, and the question comes up: _Ever been in love?_

“I know all about love,” Aziraphale protests. “I’m made of it! It’s all I am!”

“No, no,” says Crowley. “‘Course you are, I know that, that doesn’t count. Ever _been_ in love?”

Neither of them really suspects it of the other, but both their hearts are thrumming hollowly, aching in their respective bodies. Crowley gives it away more so by having asked the question. By the way he cradles his wine glass. Aziraphale notices this, because Crowley has always been his personal puzzle, but isn’t quite quick enough to put it together in his current state.

“Have _you_?” asks Aziraphale.

“No fair. I asked first.” He leaves it at that, eyes hidden as ever, along with any emotion they might let slip.

Aziraphale sighs in thought. 

“Come on,” Crowley presses. “Any angel you ever found yourself looking twice at? A human even? A… A d—”

Aziraphale shoots up in his chair. “Now that you mention it! My dear, I had almost completely forgotten about—well, it wasn’t _love_ , it could hardly have been, we only ever met the one time.”

“Oh,” Crowley reacts, muted. He doesn’t know what he expected. He’s getting his answer and now he has to sit with it.

“Yes, there was… well, it was _so_ long ago. It was even before the garden. It had almost slipped my memory, but there _was_ someone I found… frightfully fascinating. But I daresay this particular angel never really saw me when I was in the room.”

 _Isn't that the way it goes_ , thinks Crowley. _It's always the ones right in front of you._

But he listens anyway, because it's something new about Aziraphale, another reason to love him, another part of him to know and cherish the way no one else does.

“Who was it?” Crowley asks a little glumly, flipping back to the rolodex of names he still vaguely recalls from his time upstairs.

“Well, actually, they… never told me,” Aziraphale admits, deepening a blush that was already there from the liquor. “That’s how much of strangers we were. But we had a conversation once, while they were in between assignments. They were always much busier than I was in those days. I think I had just learned that I was to be sent off to earth, actually, and we—well, we ran into each other, and had some conversation about how strange it might feel to look up from below. And I said, _hopefully not too far down below_.”

He stops to giggle, and Crowley’s glasses remain opaque, but his hand has tightened on his drink.

“And then they said something along the lines of, _No, not quite. I hear the stars were made to be viewed from the center_. I always thought that was quite lovely. But then… well, the rest is history. I was sent to the gate, and I never saw… haven’t seen them since.”

There is a long silence. From the set of his eyebrows, it looks like Crowley’s eyes have closed. Aziraphale turns waspish. “Have you fallen _asleep_?”

Crowley jolts up. “No,” he says immediately, almost a whisper. “No, no. Not asleep.”

“You _asked_ me. Shows what manner of respect you demons have.”

“Aziraphale.”

“What?”

There’s a long silence, but they’ve been alive a long while, so for them, it’s not so bad.

“Nothing,” says Crowley.

 _I hate myself_ , he thinks. _If I hadn’t fallen, we could have had all that. No barriers. No hereditary enemies. No starting all over._

“Are you feeling alright, my dear? Perhaps we should sober up.”

If he had just held onto those questions, everything between them might have worked out, starting from the day the Archangel Raphael said to the Principality Aziraphale: “ _I hear the stars were made to look just right when you’re standing in the middle.”_

And now they never can.


	2. Chapter 2

“Pardon me if I’m out of place, my dear,” Aziraphale says as they walk to the car, “but you haven’t been yourself.”

Crowley knows this, but he can’t believe Aziraphale brought it up. What a wanker. He silently unlocks the car.

“Get in.”

Aziraphale does, albeit slightly huffily. “Are you angry at me? Is it… Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.” There is a hint of uncertainty in his voice, however. Like he’s trying to convince more than Crowley of this.

“No,” Crowley says, ‘merging’ into traffic. (Cutting straight into it and miraculously avoiding any sort of collision.)

“No what, dear?”

“No,” Crowley repeats simply.

Silence slinks into the space between them like a particularly squelchy mud. It’s not the first time sitting in the Bentley has felt unpleasant, but it’s the first time Aziraphale has felt bold enough to do something about it.

“Turn off here,” he instructs Crowley as they near the bookshop.

“But–”

“Don’t look at me like that, eyes on the road. Turn _off_ , I said, just… Keep driving.”

“Drive _where_?” Crowley asks, half-testy and half-confused.

Aziraphale shrugs. “Keep going until you feel better. And then that’s where we’ll stop.”

“This is ridiculous, angel. I’m taking you home.”

“If you do, I shall be cross.”

Crowley growls at the windshield, but doesn’t argue, and on they go.

They stop for air thirty-five minutes later in the ruins of an abbey, stirring the nearby bats into a frenzy. One swoops low enough that Crowley feels a breeze through his hair. Though he can thrive in heat, there is something to be said for a cool and still night.

“I wish you would let me help you,” Aziraphale says at length. The hood of the Bentley separates them. Crowley gazes off at the abbey’s one mostly-remaining stone tower.

He says, “I don’t need any help. Never have.”

“You do.”

“Aziraphale.”

“ _Crowley_.” He says it like a plea, or like a prayer. Sometimes they are indeed the same thing.

“Why do you want to ruin the night, angel?” Crowley asks.

“Oh, _I'm_ ruining it? I’m not the one skulking and moping and pushing you away! I only want for you to be okay. And if it were me in such a state… Well, I would want to know that someone cared.”

At long last, Crowley lets his eyes rise that little bit further. To the stars. They’re actually visible out here, not like in London. And he removes his glasses. Aziraphale double-takes at that.

“My _dear —_”

“I’m sorry that I ruined everything,” Crowley interrupts, though his voice is still little more than that defeated monotone, and he won’t look his angel in the face.

“You haven’t,” Aziraphale says immediately, sincerely, moving around the car to stand directly beside him. “Not even the night. Don’t think that.”

He reaches out for Crowley’s elbow, and is modestly pleased when Crowley allows them to become linked together there.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says again.

“What is it, dear? You can tell me anything.”

He stares at the side of Crowley’s face, but really at his demon eyes. They’re so rarely revealed to the world. So rarely appreciated. But here, now, Aziraphale could count the stars reflected inside them if he wanted to.

“Do you remember the night you told me about the angel you knew before Eden?”

“Ah. I thought that might be what this was about. Crowley, that was a _long_ time ago. I had almost forgotten them entirely. It truly wasn’t anything—”

“No,” Crowley says. “That’s not what I’m…”

He takes a deep breath. Drags his free hand over to the arm Aziraphale has enjoined with his, squeezes Aziraphale’s bicep as though bracing himself.

“It’s just that… well, I… I hear the stars were made to look just right—”

Aziraphale sucks in a breath, but Crowley plunges on—

“—when you’re standing in the middle. Not too high, not too low. Just… here, where the universe is perfectly balanced.”

“ _Crowley_.”

Crowley looks down and away. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know if I could.”

“My dear, _oh_ , my dear. Oh, please look at me.”

Crowley does, only because his heart is beating too fast, too warm, to allow him to be frozen or cold. He can’t even focus on all of Azirphale’s expression. He’s got tunnel-vision. He takes in the corner of a smile he’s never seen before, the wetness on the rim of an eye. This feeling between them is too big to be packed inside this one, small, close moment. Crowley’s chest is too tight.

The heat of Aziraphale’s palm informs Crowley’s skin how cold it had gotten. It shocks him back to life. His breathing slows. Aziraphale comes back into focus.

“I should have known,” Aziraphale says, “that it was always you.”

He gently guides Crowley into a stunned, simple kiss. It is a long time before either of them speaks again.


	3. Chapter 3

The bookshop is near-silent. Peaceful. Even the dust puts courtesy first and rests still, or, at worst, drifts lazily through sunlight because it is feeling vain and likes the way it looks when it does.

Crowley has brought only a few books into this place, and has opened even fewer of them. He doesn’t have the patience for them.

But the astronomical texts. It’s hard to come across a title like _The True Infinity: Our Vast Galaxies and Beyond_ and not feel his fingers itch.

But Aziraphale is occupied on the phone. He’s been on hold for sixty-three minutes awaiting the attention of a dead collector’s inheritor, and the cramped ways of the bookshop are just so that he’s out of sight while Crowley lounges comfortably on a wide ottoman. He’s got a map open on his knee.

_That’s somewhere I’d take him_ , he thinks. _And there._ Definitely _not there._

It’s more a quick shake to the memories than it is anything else. He would certainly never tell _Aziraphale_ any of this. Those days are long behind him, no matter how simple he may wish life was. Still, it can be fun to imagine, just for himself.

It’s the sunlight that gets to him eventually. It’s too golden. Too perfect. Makes his eyes feel as old as they are. He quietly shuts the book and replaces it on dusty shelf. He lays as curled up as he can be without changing his form into that of a great snake. (He doesn't want to do that right now. Not when he’s just been reminded of all the things he could still be doing if he hadn’t fallen. It’d put him through all sorts of personal anxiety. And the day is too nice for that.)

He doesn’t doze, exactly. He shuts his eyes and breathes deeply in the scent of all that’s nice and tries not to think about anything unpleasant. Eventually, Aziraphale finishes his phone conversation, and his voice is the only thing in the world, and it is clear enough to carry for miles even though it’s soft. Crowley is just attuned.

He stirs when something heavy starts dragging itself up his side. Aziraphale straightens, dropping a quilt in his alarm.

“Oh, drat! I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says.

Crowley waves him away. “Wasn’t sleeping.” His voice has that romantically-stale quality to it, which makes him seem like a liar. (Well, that and all the other things.)

Aziraphale perches near Crowley’s legs. Seeing that the tone of the room is not due for any change, Crowley relaxes back down.

“I wish you would tell me when you start to get bored,” says Aziraphale. He places a hand toward the middle of Crowley’s leg, his thumb rubbing a gentle metronome’s course of love there. It’s a good thing he’s doing that, because otherwise Crowley would kick him for being stupid.

“Did you ever figure out my name?” Crowley asks. It is rather a drastic change of subject, he’ll admit. He and Aziraphale haven’t talked about _that_ since the night in the abbey.

Aziraphale looks curiously at him. Almost sternly. “It’s Crowley.”

“I know _that_ , but… it wasn’t always.” Crowley sits up, scoots himself closer. Aziraphale’s hand finds a new home on his knee, and Crowley covers it, interlacing their fingers. “Haven’t you wondered?”

“I can’t say that I _haven’t_ , but… but the _real_ question is, would it make you feel better to tell me?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley admits.

“Then don’t.” Aziraphale squeezes. “Not until you do.”

“I want to tell you everything.”

“I know you do. But you don’t have to. You’ve got nothing to prove.”

“But if I hadn’t fallen–”

“Then we’d have never seen the stars from the middle,” Aziraphale interrupts patiently. “You know what I realized back in the eighteenth century?”

Crowley grunts his willingness to hear more.

“After they reprimanded me for performing too many frivolous miracles, I realized something about myself. It’s… Love is in the little things. And we don’t always count our small blessings. Especially not when they are overshadowed by such large… well, what are _seemingly_ problems. But my dear, whoever you are, whoever you were, whoever you will be—that is more than enough for me.”


	4. Chapter 4

_“You_ never answered the question, dear,” Aziraphale points out, carefully unpacking the contents of a whicker basket onto their picnic blanket, mindful of Crowley’s sprawled-out legs. 

Earlier that morning, there were weather reports of rain, but that report conflicted with Crowley and Aziraphale’s plans for the day, so miraculously (actually, the accurate term was demonically) a fine patch of sunlight remains obstinate over their hill while the rest of London glowers. But that’s far away.

Crowley looks up from a dish of strawberries, caught off guard. “Hmm?”

“Have you?” asks Aziraphale, smiling politely, which is as close as he gets, masking-manipulative-behavior-wise, to taking after Crowley.

“Oh, you’re far too pleased with yourself about whatever it is you’re planning. Look at you, you’ve been thinking about it all morning. Come on, out with it, what is it?”

Aziraphale gasps, wronged. “I beg your _pard —_”

“Before I die of old age, angel.”

“Rude.” Aziraphale tuts. He hands a cloth napkin to Crowley and then tucks the basket out of sight behind his back. “I’m just making innocent conversation.”

“Innocent,” Crowley repeats, and the repetition is all that’s necessary to show which substance exactly he believes that sentence to be a load of.

Aziraphale smiles sweetly at him and asks pointedly, “Have you ever been in love?”

“Angel,” Crowley sighs, leaning down so that he talks over the bone of his shoulder, “I don’t think I ever wasn’t.”

That stuns the smile off of Aziraphale’s face. He reaches out suddenly, like a man drowning, for Crowley’s hand, and it’s worth it, Crowley thinks—being so open, that is—if it means a reward like that.

Which steels his resolve.

“And that’s why I wanted to tell you,” he continues, as bravely as he can in the face of six millennia of packing down a particular past. “But...”

“Now, iIf there’s any doubt in your mind—”

“It’s not doubt for me.” 

Aziraphale looks confused at that. His thumb stops massaging Crowley’s knuckle and he asks, “Well, what does that mean?”

“I think it would freak you out,” Crowley says plainly.

“My dear, I’ve known you for over six thousand years. _Nothing_ you could possibly say or do is beyond my comprehension of you.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. He beckons Aziraphale closer and, the both of them leaning in, whispers something into Aziraphale’s ear, the whole while thinking with wonder, _I'm talking about it. I'm saying it out loud and I feel_ okay.

When they resume like normal, Aziraphale’s eyes have grown the way a cat’s paw does in bringing out their claws. Crowley can’t help but smile.

“No,” breathes Aziraphale.

Crowley nods (just a shade away from smugly.) “Yup.”

“ _No_.”

“ _Yup.”_

“Surely not. Surely _you_ can’t have fallen. Are you lying to me?”

“Told you it would freak you out.”

“I’m not-!” Aziraphale begins to protest, rather sharply, then stops himself and takes a deep breath. “I’m not freaking out. _Do you mean to tell me that I forgot to pack the Archangel Raphael’s yoghurt_?” 

Something of the mirth in Crowley’s expression quickly fades, but he keeps his composure. It’s been awhile, that’s all, since hearing that name be spoken aloud. And by Aziraphale no less. Aziraphale, the only hope Crowley has left that angels might really be holy. The only one in all of creation whose opinion on him really matters. And he’s just learned the truth.

And it’s _okay_.

It feels like the world has been saved a second time.

“The yoghurt’ll still be there another day,” Crowley says, measured.

But Aziraphale slaps his own forehead, obviously past the point of listening. “Of course! The stars! Oh, you’re sneaky, it was you all al—”

“Yes?” Crowley prompts. (Aziraphale had gone very still.)

“ _Oh.”_ The angel melts. “It was you all along! Crowley, my dear, you... you... you practically set it all up for us, you beautiful creature. Oh, every moment we’ve had, here in our middle, it’s all because—because all of your marks are _still there_. No part of you has ever left. Don’t you see?”

It’s Crowley’s turn not to listen. His ears are still ringing with the echo of _Crowley, my dear,_

_Crowley, my dear,_

He puts effort into snapping out of it, into controlling the traitorous, sappy twinge of his heart.

“You never fell at all. You couldn’t. Not after all you’ve done for the world. You will _never_ be erased from Heaven.”

Up until the very last second, Crowley is prepared to argue, but then, unexpectedly (yes, even to himself,) he grins. It’s a very bastardy grin. And it's a powerful one, too. He nods to Aziraphale conspiratorially and says:

“Whether they like it or not.”


	5. BONUS 1: Gabriel and Michael Realize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason Michael uses "he" pronouns in this chapter is bc I believe they do that in the show as well, and I thought that was nifty

Sometimes, there is a gap. Gabriel will turn to express a half-thought, and find himself wondering who he meant to speak with. There’s no one there.

Three facts have remained for six thousand years: the first maintains that a brother is a brother. The second that a traitor is a traitor. And the third fact concludes that only one of those things may become the other. There is no place for traitors in Heaven. And there is no merit in dwelling on thoughts of what is no longer possible.

Gabriel likes efficiency--advancements that break no mould. He is the safest bet in any given room. Protocol and principles, that’s what he’s made of, and he sticks to them rigidly because it’s… easy. Easy as a miracle from the human’s point of view. To break ranks is to break through the mission statement of Heaven into a gray area, and the walls upstairs are always freshly painted white. Gabriel makes sure of it.

Michael likes results. There is nothing more beautiful than a bottom line. Bottom line: the world ends. Bottom line: the angels win. Bottom line: God no longer does the heavy lifting the way angels do, and so what the angels do in God’s absence is not to be held against them. They were, after all, stepping into a job they were not qualified to handle with little to no notice. A bottom line is beautiful because it makes simple a messy world.

Bottom line: there is mess. Bottom line: angels remove the mess.

Bottom line: Raphael would have complicated that.

No, Michael does not miss his fallen sibling. And he refuses to talk about it. And he makes sure that Gabriel does not talk about it, either. After all, what is there to talk about? What’s done is done, and they’ve got their hands full juggling someone else’s job, but if _they_ don’t do it, then it isn’t done, and the world ends the _bad way_. Where no one wins because they’re all dead.

Gabriel is the leader. Michael is the strategist. Between them, they can scrounge enough brain power together to cover for Raphael, who was meant to be the creative one.

 _Too_ creative. Creative enough to start… asking questions.

Too feeling, always too feeling. “Passionate” they used to call him. But then what happened, happened, and “passionate” became a roadside cliff in need of a guard rail. Michael and Gabriel were that guard rail. Their fallen sibling was a cautionary tale.

The thing about falling is that sometimes you see it coming, and sometimes it blindsides you. Lucifer’s was not a slippery slope, but a gradual and palpable decline. For years before, whenever he’d walk out of a room, the angels left inside would put their heads together and mutter about _What’s the almighty going to do about that one_. Raphael’s, on the other hand, was blink-and-you-miss-it. He was here one day, gone the next. There wasn’t even the time to think about whether you wanted to say goodbye.

(If he decided to be a traitor, after all, then you needn’t regard him as a brother.)

And time went on. Despite the shock, the world kept turning, and the stars kept burning, and nobody said Raphael’s name. Not for six thousand years.

It was hard to keep up with new demons. Bad enough having to encourage every baby-faced cherub day-to-day (but not too hard, otherwise they ran the risk of becoming “passionate.” Passionate didn’t matter. Just loyalty. Loyalty keeps Heaven Heaven.) The first time Gabriel hears the name “Crowley” he thinks nothing of it.

“A demon?” he asks Sandalphon. “Check and see who’s available, sort of… low and on the same level. No need to exert the effort of someone actually important on a simple demon.”

Sandalphon agrees easily and makes to depart, but Gabriel sticks up a hand, thoughtful. _Hold on._

“Aziraphale,” he says. “He’s on earth, isn’t he? Have him take care of it. Perfect busy work for someone so eager to please.”

Sandalphon smiles gold.

Meanwhile, Michael? Michael doesn’t even remember. Deleted the name from his mind the second it first entered. Unimportant. Bottom line: demon.

But _after_ the armageddon that never was, the name finally sticks. And no matter what Michael might have said at that demon’s trial, there is nothing more dangerous than an unchecked enemy. He keeps an eye out. And for awhile, there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Just a never-was-an-angel and a soon-to-be-demon spending too much time together on a planet that was never theirs.

Bottom line: ?

So Michael goes to Gabriel for help.

“I need to understand what happened between these two,” he says. “Make some sense of it. Find out how dangerous they really are.”

And Gabriel turns to the left, and frowns in thought, like he is surprised to find no one there.

“Gabriel?”

“It’s nothing. Just a passing… Are you sure there is cause for concern? They’re two outcasts. Nothing more. No threat to us.”

“I would like to… speak with them.”

“Then speak we shall.”

They arrive on Earth. It is easy to find Aziraphale because he never left the bookshop.

“Hold on,” Gabriel cautions as they approach the door. The sign says _closed_. There’s an intimidation as hot as hellfire emanating from it.

“Do not let _them_ see your cowardice,” Michael chides, and pushes through. Bottom line: answers are needed.

The door creaks and cuts off two voices. And two figures appear.

“Oh!” says Crowley, glancing sideways at Aziraphale. “Look at that. The gang’s all here.”

Aziraphale looks momentarily stunned, which only makes Michael’s brain fight harder to understand. He pushes forward.

“Crowley. Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale bristles. “I do believe the sign said closed.”

“We are not here to indulge your human fantasy. We have come to–”

“Ask for the towel back?” Crowley interrupts. “No good. It’s long gone. I’ll pay for another one. Do you take updog currency?”

“What’s updog?” Gabriel asks.

“Nothing, but I do deserve a high five for that one.”

“Not now, dear,” Aziraphale whispers to him. 

Crowley squares his shoulders, glaring through the two archangels. “Right, straight to business then. We don’t care why you came. Leave now, and we might let you go alive.”

Aziraphale begins to react in astonishment, but Michael and Gabriel beat him to it.

“You should not threaten angels so easily,” Gabriel says.

“I’ll do what I want,” says Crowley. “Fair’s fair, right? I’m just dishing it out as good as I get. Doing as you do.”

“ _C_ _rowley_ ,” Aziraphale protests.

“Where do you get the nerve?” Michael all but growls.

“Oh, probably from my time in heaven.”

If anyone else in the room were the snake, there would have been hissing. “Don’t invoke that holy place,” Gabriel says.

"You lost the privilege,” says Michael.

“Geez!” Crowley throws up his hands. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was personal! come on, are we going to forget the past that easily?”

“You have no past.”

“You _are_ forgotten.”

“You’d think we three grew up with me hogging the telly, eh?” Crowley asks Aziraphale, the same way a zookeeper teaching schoolchildren might ask an obvious question to a turtle.

And Michael and Gabriel are blindsided.

“Oh.” Crowley tilts his head. “You really didn’t know. Funny, that. Almost.”

“It can’t be,” says Gabriel.

“Impossible,” says Michael.

“Hello,” says Crowley, twirling five fingers, and then settling on showing them just one.

“ _Demon_ ,” says Michael.

“Oh, yes!” says Crowley.

“But also,” says Gabriel.

“Oh yes…” Crowley finishes.

He’s scowling now. Darker. His anger crackles into lightning on the street outside, and black wings unfurl like looming shadows. Michael and Gabriel stare at them as though trying to discern something underneath. An origin to the stain, or a clean patch.

Michael blinks first. Bottom line: demon. He says, “You will not expect any special treatment from us.”

Crowley shakes his head. “I was never special.”

(It may be that Gabriel flinches at that. Too long ago. Too hard to tell.)

Aziraphale, certainly, makes a noise at the back of his throat, but Crowley shakes his head the slightest amount. An indication to let him handle this.

“You just can’t quit betraying your side, can you?” Michael asks. “What did you hope to achieve? You are an abomination. You were cast out for a reason. And you will _never_ be allowed back in.”

Gabriel double-takes, but still says nothing. He looks like a man found on the side of the road with no memory of how he got there. Lost. Confused. Aged.

“I don’t want that,” Crowley says. “I’m better than that, now.”

“Better than Heaven? Blasphemy,” Michael chides.

“Demon,” Crowley replies.

And Gabriel can no longer keep silent.

“You let me speak with you at the human airbase,” he says, agitated, his purple eyes glowing slightly. Is he needing to keep his emotions at bay? _What_ could he possibly feel for Crowley? Surely they were no longer each other’s kin. “We looked each other in the eyes, Raphael.”

“Crowley,” Crowley and Michael correct him at the same time.

Gabriel looks appropriate aghast at himself. “Crowley,” he amends, and then continues, “This is--I mean, you were--you are--this is just evidence of how far one may fall.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same to you.”

“You have no authority to judge us!” Michael says, seething. “Do not forget your place. If you are not an angel now, you never were. Not at heart. Not truly. Give me one good reason not to smite you where you stand.”

Aziraphale steps in front of Crowley, chin raised high, and says immediately, “I won’t let you.”

“Angel, pl–”

Crowley puts a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, but even that, Aziraphale shrugs off.

“Gabriel,” he says. “Perhaps you can understand this. Crowley has changed, yes. He is no longer an angel.”

“He doesn’t feel love the way we do,” Michael interjects, and Crowley’s head pokes out from behind Aziraphale.

“When’s the last time _you_ had a warm, fuzzy feeling, then?”

“Michael, I believe I must depart,” Gabriel says softly. He still looks like he’s been stranded inside a life that he does not call his.

Michael says, “Yes, do.”

And Gabriel disappears.

Aziraphale sighs and steps back at Crowley’s side, holding Crowley’s wrist tightly. Crowley takes the hand and squeezes back.

“Guess some people just can’t take the heat,” Aziraphale mutters.

Crowley shrugs. “Well, you know what they say. If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the boiling sulphur pools. Maybe he did what’s right by him. Maybe seeing me just scared him a little too badly.”

“Angels fear nothing,” says Michael, even as his eyes hint toward something different. His jaw works. He takes a moment to control himself and then asks, “Is this how you were able to withstand the holy water?”

Aziraphale quietly snorts. Crowley squeezes his hand again, this time in warning, and says, “You didn’t really think I was going to answer that one, did you? And might I remind you that all I asked that day was to be left alone.”

“You may think you still belong in this world,” says Michael, shaking his head and glaring at their conjoined hands, “but you do not. And Aziraphale, one day you will pay dearly for your choices. Fear the future. For when that day comes, you, too, will be erased from Heaven. Anditcan’tcometoosoon.”

The breath rushes out of him, and Michael, too, is gone.

The bookshop stands sturdy and proud. Crowley swings up his and Aziraphale’s hands, kissing the back of Aziraphale’s, and loudly declares, “Well, _that_ was dramatic. Weren’t we going to go and look at a cottage this afternoon, love?”


	6. BONUS 2: Aziraphale's Before and After

BEFORE…

“Great things are in the making,” Gabriel concludes to the lot of angels congregated in Heaven for orders. The earth is nearly finished. Preparations are being made for the garden day and night (whatever those things are--Gabriel assures them that the memo will go out just as soon as the new initiative is officially implemented.) Heaven will soon be a perfect oasis in a wasteland of empty galaxy designed to specifically benefit human life!

“Now, if you’ll all check back in at head office as soon as possible, we can get those new assignments out to each of you. Let’s go make some miracles!”

He gives two thumbs up to the crowd and the angels cheer, Aziraphale perhaps among the heartiest. It’s just so _exciting_! A brand new era. A brand new _species_. New creatures to love and share in revelry for God--

“You ever wonder why he gets to give all the orders?” a voice says, low, just over Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale turns.

It’s another angel. (Obviously. Nothing else you’re likely to find in Heaven.) But Aziraphale’s never seen them before. (Again, nothing new. There were millions of angels. Couldn’t possibly meet them all. Not when time, as well, was still so new!)

Aziraphale chooses to ignore both the question, and the curious, fluttery feeling that comes over him like shimmering light over the bare soul. “Oh, hello! Who are you?”

The angel ignores his question right back.

“It’s just… Well, we’ve all got brains haven’t we? Or… consciences. If we all had bodies, we’d all have brains. And that’s another thing, I reckon! Why do only some of us get bodies?”

 _Why_ is this attractive stranger posing these questions to _Aziraphale?_ Is this what those cautionary training seminars had prepared him for? Testing his loyalty to the ineffability of the Ineffable Plan? But surely another angel wouldn’t try to tempt him into any sort of… well, _behaviors_.

But then, they do say that angels Fell in waves.

 _Not_ that this angel appears anything close to falling. Fluffy wings, bright smile, young eyes. Younger than Aziraphale’s, which have already spent much of their time peeking around dark corners in an attempt to track down all those spare bits of knowledge.

Oh, _dear_. What if… Well, what if this angel _knows_ that about him, and that was wrong of him to do, and now they’re trying to coax some sort of _confession_ out of Aziraphale? If there’s any sort of trick afoot, it can be nothing else.

“Eh?” the angel prompts. “You alright? Look pale…”

Aziraphale shakes himself. “Quite alright! Is it warm? I thought we, uh, I thought the temperature was regulated…”

The angel shrugs. “I don’t feel hot.”

Neither of them were to know that _hot_ would one day become highly suggestive slang, otherwise that conversation might have suffered something of a horrible downward spiral. Instead, all it does is peter out with Aziraphale softly muttering, “Right…”

“You’re Aziraphale, right?”

“ _You_ know _my_ name?”

“Sure. You’re going to be placed on Earth.”

“H-How do you know that? I thought only head office had the assignments.”

“Yup.”

Oh, so they _are_ an important angel. Aziraphale does his best to act calm, casual. _Cool_. (Another word that hadn’t been given a colloquial meaning yet, but applies nonetheless.)

“Consider it a little gift. You can skip the line, get right to whatever it is you were planning on doing later… _Did_ you have any plans?” they ask curiously.

The fluttering returns with a vengeance. Good lord, what _is_ that?

“Er,” says Aziraphale. 

An excited passerby making for head office comes slamming into him from behind, startling him badly enough that he lets out a sound that sounds sort of like _Nllakg!_ The intruding angel apologizes and carries on their way, but for the life of him, Aziraphale has forgotten what he was just asked. _The_ angel (who still hasn’t given up a name, Aziraphale notes with some urgency) is giving him getting an expectant look.

“I think it’ll be fascinating to be on Earth,” he soldiers on gamely.

The angel reacts with face-dropping, and then a polite smile, before finally warming into something genuine again as they continue to listen. 

“Strange, though. I mean. Well, I’ve never really traveled before. Have you?”

“Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that,” they say. _Warm_ , Aziraphale thinks again. That’s the only way to describe them. “Heads up: it probably will take some getting used to, looking up at all this from below, but i’m sure you’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

Aziraphale smiles brightly. “Ah! Thank you for saying that. Really, it’s quite a nerve-wracking thought. I just hope I’m not looking up from _too_ far below. What if I do something wrong down on the planet? I don’t want to become a demon. It looks _so_ unpleasant, and I can only imagine the paperwork that’ll be involved…”

“Nah!” the angel says confidently. “cCan’t convince me it’s anything but easy. Being on earth, I mean. You just give the humans the choices. They’re the ones that’ll have to worry about right or wrong. You’ll have a great time, perform some miracles, see some fantastic sights. Between you and me…” The angel leans in, and Aziraphale’s flutter kicks in so violently that he’s certain he must be sending out distress signals at this point (even though it’s _not_ distress, it’s… it’s… what _is_ it?)– “I hear the stars were made to look just right when you’re standing in the middle.”

And the flutter calms, like a storm suddenly passing at sea. Aziraphale exhales calmly. He looks into the Angel’s eyes-–so _bright_ , so full of hope-–and he doesn’t know _where_ this angel heard that, or how they might know that, or why they might believe it…

But in that moment, they certainly have Aziraphale convinced of it.

* * *

  
…AFTER

Crowley stops by the bookshop just after dusk, and he hasn’t bothered to dress up because he isn’t counting on letting himself be noticed even during a relaxing night of seeing a show. Aziraphale closed up hours ago, but has gotten very absorbed in a book since then, and doesn’t notice his entrance until Crowley’s demonically lounging over the back of his armchair.

“Have any plans for the night, angel?” he asks knowingly. “Maybe a certain date you’ve forgotten about?”

Aziraphale’s mind is so far gone that it takes a slight detour before returning to the Here and Now. For just a second, he’s nothing more than a wide-eyed principality being asked by a tall, mysterious, nameless archangel, “…skip the line, get right to whatever it is you were planning on doing later… did you have any plans?”

 _My god_ , he thinks in the present, snapping the book shut. _He was_ flirting _with me._


	7. BONUS 3: In the Cottage Garden

They say not to stare directly at the sun, but sunglasses were obviously invented for a reason, and also, that’s only advice for humans. Crowley made the damn stars, he knows how bright they are. He’ll be fine.

He’s outside the cottage with a trowel in hand and dirt on his trousers. He never wears his watch outside, which means now he has no idea what time it is, and he’s too lazy to do anything but try and figure it out by means of the sky. He is out of practice, though. Old human conveniences sneaking up on him.

“My dear, if you’re trying to keep track of it, I assure you the sun isn’t going anywhere,” a voice says from the road. The splintery gate to the property creaks open, wears further against its usual scuffs in the rock-embedded garden path.

Ah. Aziraphale is home.

“I was lamenting the long absence of _your_ sunlight,” Crowley waxes sarcastically. Then turns his attention back to his dirtbed with little affair.

“Fear no more.” 

Aziraphale’s shadow bobs over his work as he comes to stand behind him, a hand sliding to rest on the back of Crowley’s head in greeting. There is no sweat there because Crowley finds sweating gross, and will always decide not to, if he can help it.

Crowley hums flatly. “My hero.”

“Bought something while I was out.”

The way Aziraphale says it, somehow simultaneously cutting to the chase and trying to brushing it off, tells Crowley that this conversation is due to be a real one, so he sits back on his heels and pats the ground beside him. Aziraphale sits. His white hair glows like a halo, and Crowley’s heart, too, glows.

“I got this.” 

Aziraphale produces a small box from a small bag and hands it to Crowley. Simply. Like it maybe isn’t, very clearly, a box for a ring.

And Crowley opens the box.

“Obviously, you needn’t wear it,” Aziraphale says, laughing breathily at himself. “I didn’t even ask you. I just figured… Well, it’s quite meaningful for the humans, and we chose the side that includes them, and so I thought… I thought it might be nice to adopt those sweet little terms that they have for each other. But, again, that’s just me–”

“Angel, would you let me _think_ for a minute?” Crowley hisses over the buzzing that’s taken over his own skull. It comes out as harshly as anything else he’s ever said, which is to say, hardly at all. 

Aziraphale buttons his lips. He watches Crowley intently, as Crowley takes the ring out of the box to better inspect it. It is a simple golden band that does not go at all with the everyday black ensemble he chooses to wear. The inside reads: _We found our middle_.

He has no doubt it would, should he choose to slip it on, fit perfectly.

“So…” he says lowly, after a long pause in which his brain whistles hollowly like wind through a ghost town in a cartoon. “We’d be… partners?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Well, aren’t we?”

In everything but name, so far.

“Wouldn’t things be…” Crowley swallows. It’s hot out. Not something a demon usually notices, but that sun _is_ beating down, isn’t it? If he isn’t mistaken, he’s sweating. “Well, I mean, would things be weird after this? If we just started saying that we were? Are you ready for that?”

“After everything we’ve been through, I think it’s safe to say that I am ready to never be parted from you again.”

“Oh. right.”

Crowley picks a finger and puts the ring on it. It’s an unfamiliar weight. He and Aziraphale both stare at it.

Then, Aziraphale takes his hand. He’s already wearing an identical band himself. He touches the line of Crowley’s jaw with four fingers and kisses him, and Crowley chases the routine intimacy of it. Aziraphale is right. They already do so many things that humans do. What’s one more item to add to the list? What’s one more line crossed, so long as they are crossing toward each other?

They break away, but only a little--only enough for Crowley to guide Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and kiss the ring itself. A rather unchecked sign of happiness. But he is that. He _is_ happy.

“A garden will do nicely,” he murmurs, like the words go with a slow song playing on the radio, “since we’d never be able to have this in a church.”

Aziraphale giggles at him and kisses him even slower, more fondly this time.

“I love you anywhere,” he answers, looking first at Crowley’s eyes, and then down at their hands. “And always.”

Crowley feels the ring snug and knows that he will get used to it in no time at all. he bites back a smile before saying, “That’s nice, angel. I still loved you first.”

His words say that it was a joke. His tone says: _I was, and am, always happy to wait for you._


End file.
